


The 6th Day of Christmas: "Det är en ros utsprungen" (like a rose e'er blooming)

by TC (thecollective)



Series: Destiel Smut Brigade 12 Days of Christmas Challenge [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12 Days of Christmas, Acts of Kindness, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Castiel POV, Castiel misses Gabriel, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas fic, Clothed Sex, Dean Gets The Christmas Spirit, Dean is a sourpuss, Dean is emotionally constipated, Destiel Smut Brigade, Dry Humping, Everyone Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Family Feels, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Impala Sex, M/M, Mistletoe, Original Character(s), Sam Can't Cook, Sex in the Impala, Smut, Snow, popcorn garlands, post 10x09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 03:05:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2797286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecollective/pseuds/TC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stranded in a small town on Christmas Eve, Castiel finds that the Christmas spirit comes from helping others. Dean finds that his comes from helping Cas help others.</p><p>A Christmas fic in which everyone ships it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The 6th Day of Christmas: "Det är en ros utsprungen" (like a rose e'er blooming)

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the characters from Supernatural, and I make no profit from this (other than your kudos). 
> 
> The title comes from a Swedish Christmas carol, which has one of the most hauntingly beautiful melodies I've ever heard, and definitely influenced my mood for this piece. 
> 
> I apologize for the length. What can I say? It's canon-compliant and Dean is a slowpoke when it comes to love. This isn't the fluffy smut I intended to write, but the Collectiva Diva told me I had to post this one, since she loved it so much. Who am I to argue with my heterolifemate?

The cold December air nipped at his skin, and he bundled his coat tighter about him, even though he didn’t really need to. He stared at the inner mechanical workings of his automobile, and marveled at how humanity had been able to create technology that not even the Lord’s Heavenly Host could understand. He fiddled with the cap of the radiator, relishing the sting of its warmth. Castiel could, of course, easily warm himself with his Grace, could let the Word’s power surge through him, crackling like wildfire and scorching away the winter’s biting whispers, but he didn’t. 

Being cold, thought Castiel, felt a lot like being human. 

He slammed down the hood of his car, letting it clunk closed with a _thud_. The road was deserted, the shops dark and the sidewalks empty. Specks of snow dusted the air, and Castiel was reminded a snow globe that Claire had shown him the week before. “Life should be like a snow globe,” she’d said with a sigh, “Even when everything gets shook up and crazy, you know it’ll calm back down and everything will be perfect again. Perfect log cabin with a perfect Christmas tree, you know?” He’d bought Claire the snow globe, had handed it to her before he’d dropped her off with her mother. A Christmas present, she’d called it. He’d never given one before. 

_I'm a slaaaave for you. I cannot hold it; I cannot control it._

Castiel regretted giving Sam permission to program his mobile phone’s auditory settings. 

“Hello, Dean,” he answered the phone. 

“Cas, man, got your text. You’re having car trouble?”

“Yes, I—,” Cas gave a sideways glare at his transportation, “I find that I am unable to ignite the engine.”

“Did you check the fluid levels?”

“Yes, Dean. There is an adequate amount of oil.”

Castiel could hear Dean muttering to Sam about “thickened fluids” and “spark plug reliability.” When Dean came back to the phone, he spit out, “We’ll be there in two hours, weather permitting. Don’t freeze your ass off.” 

Castiel wanted to reassure his friend that it was physically impossible for an angel to lose their ass due to cold weather, but the harsh click indicated that Dean had ended the call. 

He looked down the abandoned street once more, and saw a faint light flickering in the distance. He headed towards it, if for no other reason than Dean had told him to. His steps crunched in the freshly-fallen snow. He hated the sound. That was something new, too. Annoyance. Irritation. Anger. His shoes crunching the snow annoyed him, or the way Sam cleared his throat before he felt comfortable enough to ask him a question annoyed him, but the way Dean liked to pretend around Sam that the Mark didn’t exist, _that_ infuriated him. 

If Castiel concentrated hard enough, he could hear the acceleration of his vessel’s pulse in response to his frustration. If he focused on that, then, maybe he’d forget what Dean had asked him to do if he ever “went Dark” again. 

As Castiel drew closer to the light, he saw that it reflected out of the tall, etched windows of a church. He stood before the church. The sign on the door, barely visible in the dark, read, “You have never really lived until you have done something for someone who can never repay you. Get kind, and Merry Christmas. -Reverend Bennett.” Beneath it, scrawled in plain black ink it said, “It is warm inside. Our God welcomes everyone.”

Castiel knew that he would not find God in a church, this one or any other. Humanity’s architectural constructs were impressive, but the looming peaks of Everest or the yawning gap of the Grand Canyon or the towering strength of redwoods were a far more fitting cathedral for his Father, Castiel thought. But, perhaps, it wasn’t about that. 

He opened the door and entered the church. It was warm, as the sign had promised, but its long stretches of wooden floor echoed Castiel’s footsteps in its cavernous emptiness. He took a seat in one of the long pews in the center of the church. The church was candlelit, and to the left of the altar was a tall Christmas tree, wrapped in strands of blue lights that twinkled like the stars once did, before the technological progression of humanity dimmed the effect of the stars. The carved panels behind the altar depicted the story of Saint George, who destroyed a dragon to save a beautiful woman. 

The real saint George had been a drunkard, who had stood up to the Roman emperor Diocletian in a fit of pride and alcohol-induced belligerence. 

A man appeared in a doorway at the front of the church, presumably from the vestiary. He stopped when he saw Castiel, and a smile tugged on the corners of his creased and weathered face. “Hello,” he said, moving closer to the angel. 

“Hello,” replied Castiel.

“Do you mind if I—?” the man asked, motioning to Castiel’s pew. 

Castiel scooted over exactly 36 inches so the man would have plenty of room and plenty of personal space. “Are you the reverend?” Castiel asked him.

“I am,” the man replied, sitting down. “Reverend Bennett,” he said, extending his hand to the angel, “But you may call me Charles, on account of it being Christmas and all.”

Castiel shook the man’s hand, slowly, tentatively. “My name is Cas,” he told the reverend. 

****“Well, Cas, what brings you to our church? Escaping the cold air?”

Castiel nodded. “Yes. I experienced some trouble with my vehicle. My…friend told me to find someplace warm to wait for him until he and his brother arrive to help me.”

The reverend nodded, didn’t say anything more. 

It had been a long time since Castiel had sat with someone in silence where no one felt burdened to force a conversation about everything except what needed saying. Angels were political beings and, as Gabriel had once told him, “full of hot air.” Not for the first time, he wished the archangel’s death had been just another trick, another prank from the Trickster. 

“Forgive me if I’m prying,” the reverend said, “But you look the way I do when I think about my daughter. I miss her the most on Christmas.” The man’s eyes were kind, and his voice soothing, and Castiel thought that perhaps this was why humans attended church. 

“I find that I miss my brother,” Castiel said. “He enjoyed merry-making. Very much.”

“What was your brother like?”

Castiel told him about Gabriel, about the elaborate pranks and the way Gabriel sucked in great mouthfuls of air before he laughed, like his vessel couldn’t laugh loud enough to please the archangel. He didn’t tell the Reverend Charles that Gabriel was an archangel, of course. He found that Dean’s advice to tell half-truths in situations like this worked best. The reverend, in return, told the angel about his daughter, about her art and the chilling clarity of her voice when she sang. She’d been diagnosed with leukemia when she was seventeen, the reverend said, and yet she still sang whenever she painted. The reverend pulled out his wallet, showed Castiel a picture of his daughter. She had freckles, like Dean. “Her name was Heather,” Charles said, “And I even miss how angry she’d get at me when I picked her up late from school.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Castiel said. 

The man tucked the picture, which was worn at the edges, back into his wallet. “It’s harder at Christmas, I’m sure you know that. Makes it difficult to find the Christmas spirit when you can’t be with your loved ones.” The man smiled. “But Heather, she’d be as angry as a hornet if I stopped decorating or singing Christmas carols or drinking eggnog, you know?”

“Your daughter—she is the reason you celebrate Christmas?”

“Yes, she is a good part of the reason, I would say.”

Castiel had never celebrated Christmas, not like Gabriel had. 

“Tell me,” the Reverend Charles said, “Your friends—are you spending Christmas with them?”

“Their work does not usually permit them to celebrate holidays.”

“I see. You know, after Heather passed, the only comfort I got was from visiting every other kid that had been in the same ward as her.” The reverend glanced at his watch. “Cas, would you like to help me spread some Christmas cheer?”

Castiel thought about it for a moment or two and decided that perhaps it was time he celebrated Christmas. “Yes, I would,” he told the reverend sincerely. 

Twenty minutes later, the Reverend had given Castiel a thick winter coat to wear—“You’ll catch your death in just a trenchcoat,” the man had said—and had bundled the angel into his SUV and headed toward the Good Samaritan Society. “How are you at singing Christmas carols?” the reverend asked him. 

“I am acquainted with them,” replied Castiel. 

“Acquainted, eh? Maybe you should just visit, then.”

They pulled into the parking lot of the hospice center. “The visiting hours are long over,” the reverend explained as they walked toward the front doors, “But being a member of the clergy has a few perks. If anyone asks—you’re visiting from the diocese in Kansas City.”

Castiel wondered if Dean would laugh at that, at Cas impersonating a member of the clergy for anything other than a case. “Alright,” was all he said in response. 

They walked through the doors, and the reverend signed them in with the nurse on duty, a smiling redhead named Peggy. “Are you going to see the Stewarts?” she asked the Reverend Charles.

“Yes,” he replied. “I think that Mrs. Stewart will really take a shine to my colleague here.” 

The reverend led Castiel to a small room that overlooked the front lawn of the hospice. Snow frosted over the windows, which had tinsel taped around the edges of them. A small plastic Christmas tree adorned the side table, and a very small elderly lady was arranging decorations on it. Her dark-skinned hands shook a little, Castiel noticed. In the bed, a very frail gentleman watched her work, his pale hands too weak and not nimble enough to do more than hold the extra decorations. He looked up as they entered the room. “Lulu,” he said, “We have company.”

The woman turned abruptly, the sleigh bells on her Christmas sweater jingling sweetly. “Hello, Reverend!” she greeted warmly. She wrapped her eyes around Castiel, looking him up and down. “Who’s this you’ve brought with you, and is he any good at stringing popcorn?”

“This is Cas. He’s a colleague of mine,” the Reverend said. “Cas, this is Mr. and Mrs. Stewart, some very good friends.”

“I do not know how to string popcorn,” Castiel admitted. 

“That’s alright, honey,” Mrs. Stewart said, “I’ll teach you. Come with me.” She took Castiel by the hand and led him out of the room and down the hall. “We’ll be back,” she called over her shoulder to her husband. “We need to pop more popcorn.”

She led him to the hospice’s kitchen, where there were already three large bowls of popcorn sitting on the counter. Mrs. Stewart placed her hands on her hips and stared at the popcorn bowls, humming an unfamiliar tune. “I think maybe just one more bowl of popcorn,” she said at last. “Do you drink coffee—Cas, was it?”

“Yes,” Castiel said. 

She put a bag of popcorn in the microwave and then turned on the coffee maker. “The staff let me use their kitchen since I’m here so often,” she explained. “I make them coffee and cookies whenever I have the opportunity.” She grabbed a stool from one side of the counter and patted it. “Have a sit. These old bones aren’t used to sitting so much,” she said, “But Phillip, my husband, he can’t go out anymore, so I sit with him most days. We used to put him in a chair and go for walks. That man has more love for fresh air than he does for me, I swear. It kills him that he can’t go outside, not when it’s so cold.”

She handed the angel a cup of coffee and a long line of steel string, and showed him how to carefully string the popcorn so it didn’t crack or crumble. Castiel listened to her talk about her husband, her three children, her twelve grandchildren, her four great-grandchildren, her one great-great grandchild, and the lives they’d shared as she assembled the popcorn garlands. 

“You have an impressive family,” Castiel said. “Why are they not here?”

Mrs. Stewart put down her popcorn garland. “Visiting hours are too short,” she said. Her voice trembled. “And the rules state only one guest at a time in the evenings, weekends, or on Christmas, apparently. My children—they understand. They’re not happy, but who would be? They’re missing their father’s last Christmas.” She reached over and patted Castiel’s hand. “But enough about me,” she said, “Tell me about you. Do you have a young woman? A sweetheart?”

“I—uh, no, I don’t,” Castiel stammered. 

“A young man? Oh don’t look so shocked, honey. It’s the twenty-first century, and one of my granddaughters has a young lady of her own. A really foxy one, if I say so myself.”

“No, no,” Castiel repeated. “No, I don’t.”

Mrs. Stewart didn’t look like she believed him. “You know,” she said, “I met Phil when I was sixteen. I lived in New Orleans then, and I thought I knew everything that needed to be known. And then I saw him on the promenade down by the river, and I realized I knew nothing at all. We were married two weeks later. Interracial marriage wasn’t even legal, then, not in Louisiana. On paper, we weren’t married until we moved to Kansas after Phil came back from the War.”She patted Castiel’s hand again. “Don’t be afraid to love whoever you want to love,” she told him. “I don’t regret a thing. Not one thing, and after sixty-seven years, that’s saying something.”

She picked her popcorn garland back up. “Now,” she said, “Tell me about your young man.”

When Dean called Castiel twenty minutes later, Mrs. Stewart clapped her hands and gasped, “Is it _him_?”

Castiel nodded, and through his phone’s earpiece, he heard Dean say, “Cas? Who is that? Cas?”

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel stood and left the kitchen before Mrs. Stewart could eavesdrop any further. 

“We’re at your car. Where the hell are you?”

“I am at the Good Samaritan Society.” He rattled off the address to Dean. “I…I need your help with something.”

“Shit, Cas. It’s cold. It’s snowing. And there’s a bottle of Jack at the bunker with my name on it.”

He heard Sam mumble something in the background, and then Dean’s voice say, “What do you _mean_ you got rid of it?!” Some more mumbling. “Damn it, Sam. Stop mothering me. Cas—we’ll be there in five.” The call ended with a click. 

Castiel reentered the kitchen. “Mrs. Stewart,” he said, “My friends will be here in a few minutes. May I assist you with hanging these popcorn garlands before I go?”

Mrs. Stewart beamed. “That’s very kind of you, Cas,” she said. “Phil loves popcorn garlands.”

Castiel and the reverend were hanging popcorn garlands when the angel saw the Impala pull to the front of the hospice center. He excused himself, and went to meet the Winchesters at the front door. Sam was dressed warmly, and festively, with a thick red scarf tied around his neck. Dean, on the other hand, looked miserable. “Come on, Cas,” he barked, “Let’s go.”

“No, we cannot leave yet.” Castiel said, “I require your assistance.”

“Damn it, we just drove for _two hours_ to save your ass, and here you are playing bingo with the old senile folks.”

Castiel frowned. “The Stewarts are not senile, Dean. On the contrary, they are very astute.”

Dean groaned. “That is not the point, Cas. The point is that I want to go home.” 

Sam looked pained, and torn between siding with his brother and his friend. “Cas, what is it you need?”

Dean threw up his hands. “I’ll wait in the car,” he said as he stomped off. 

Dean’s boots crunching in the snow grated on Castiel’s ears. “Sam, I didn’t mean to upset him.”

“It’s not you, Cas. He’s been a grinch this year.” _Because of the Mark_ was left unspoken.

“Is he planning to steal Christmas?”

“What? No, just never mind. What help do you need, Cas?” 

Castiel told Sam about the Mr. Stewart’s medical condition and Mrs. Stewart’s sad eyes when she talked about her family missing Christmas with her husband. “I want to help them,” Castiel said. “I want Mrs. Stewart to have a good Christmas with her husband and her children, and her grandchildren. And her great-grandchildren.” 

“That’s…really nice of you, Cas. Uh, why the sudden Christmas spirit?”

Castiel tried, and failed, not to glance in the direction of the Impala. “Christmas is traditionally spent with family. With the people you care about. Mr. Stewart is dying. He should be with his family.”

“I think I know just who to call,” Sam said. “Wait here a minute, okay?” He pulled out his cell phone and walked back in the direction of the Impala. 

Castiel waited. The snow had ceased, for the moment. Castiel could see his breath, but he no longer felt cold. The reverend’s thick wool coat brushed away the winter’s chill. He shoved his hands in the pockets, wishing for a minute that he had a pair of mittens, and looked up. A small patch of clouds had dissipated, letting just a touch of starlight shine through. Castiel basked in it, feeling instantly more in the presence of his Father than he had in centuries. 

“Cas?” Dean’s voice interrupted his inner reflection. 

“Yes, Dean?”

The Winchester sidled up to him, shuffling from foot to foot. “It’s cold in the car,” Dean griped. “C’mon, let’s go talk to the nurse.”

“I thought you didn’t want to help?”

Dean shrugged. “It’s Christmas,” he said by way of explanation, “And I don’t want Sam to bitchface me into the New Year.”

He headed toward the door of the hospice center. “You coming?”

Castiel reached out and grabbed Dean’s arm. “Dean,” he said, “Thank you.” Dean’s eyes avoided his, the way they had been ever since Cain had placed that cursed Mark on the Winchester’s arm. 

“You’re welcome,” Dean mumbled. 

Peggy the Nurse had nothing but sympathy for the Stewarts, as it turned out. She didn’t question why the hospice center’s director (who, as Castiel understood it, was impersonated by Garth) called on Christmas Eve to make an exception to the visiting regulations, and she didn’t seem to care that it happened suspiciously close to Dean and Sam’s arrival. “I’ll call their oldest son,” she said. “You three are in charge of decorations.” 

“I already made popcorn garlands,” Castiel offered. 

“There’s more decorations in the supply closet,” Peggy said, motioning to the hallways. “Second door on the right.”

Mrs. Stewart was delighted that Castiel had returned, and even more delighted that he’d returned with more Christmas decorations. When she saw Sam, her eyes lit up. “You, you’re tall enough!” she exclaimed when he walked in the door. “Come here, young man. You need to hang the mistletoe.” 

“Lulu,” Mr. Stewart chided, “There’s no one in this room that needs kissing besides me, and there’s nowhere to hang it above my bed.”

Mrs. Stewart tsked. “That’s where you’re wrong, silly goose. You don’t need mistletoe for me to kiss you.” She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips. “And you’re not the only one that needs kissing.” She winked at Castiel. 

“I’m not dead yet, Lulu.”

“I wasn’t talking about _me_ , Phil. Now, young man--Sam, right? Please hang this above the doorway.”

Sam took the mistletoe from Mrs. Stewart and centered it above the doorway. The woman winked at Castiel again and handed him a box of glittery snowflakes to hang around the room. “Get your young man to help you,” she said. “He’s almost as tall as the other one.”

Castiel took the box to Dean, who began hanging the snowflakes in silence. The Winchester looked at the glittery creations with obvious disdain, but he didn’t complain. Castiel wondered if perhaps the Christmas spirit was infecting Dean at last. 

The reverend and Sam were wrapping colored Christmas lights around the windows and chatting about the last week’s football game. Castiel envied Sam his ability to talk to strangers in any situation and to know instinctively what societal conventions to use and when. It was seamless, Sam’s transition from arguing about football teams to his loud and boisterous rendition of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” 

Sam Winchester had no singing voice to speak of, but Mrs. Stewart’s smile told Castiel that she didn’t mind. From the small smirk tugging on Dean’s lips, it appeared that his brother didn’t either. 

The reverend and Mrs. Stewart started in with “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” after that. They were halfway through the last refrain when a short, dark-haired woman burst through the door. “And have yourself a merry little Christmas now!” she sang loudly. 

“Annie?” gasped Mrs. Stewart. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, it’s not just me, Grandma,” the young woman said. She moved out of the doorway and in swarmed Mrs. Stewart’s family, carrying pizza boxes and cartons of eggnog. 

Soon, Mr. Stewart’s room was filled with his children, his grandchildren, his great-grandchildren, and his one great-grandchild, a gurgling baby of nine months. Pizzas were passed around, and someone had spiked the eggnog. Castiel was introduced and re-introduced a dozen times at least. The Reverend Charles came up to Castiel, shook his hand, and said, “This is what Christmas is about. Your brother would be proud.”

Castiel looked around at the Stewart family, who were laughing and singing, and each of them taking their turn speaking with Mr. Stewart, and he had to agree with the Reverend. Gabriel would have found this a pleasurable merry-making experience. It seemed to be so for everyone except Dean, who had shuffled into the corner, his hands in his pockets, but not refusing pizza when it was offered to him. 

The angel walked to his friend, refusing four different offers of pizza or eggnog, and stood next to him in the corner. “Dean,” Castiel said, “Do you wish to leave?”

“The party’s just started, Cas.”

“This is their celebration. I…I feel out of place now that I have done what I set out to do.”

Dean shrugged. “If you want to go, let’s go. I’ll grab Sam.”

Sam, as it turned out, didn’t want to leave yet. Castiel suspected that Annie, Mrs. Stewart’s granddaughter, had something to do with it. “Go on ahead you guys,” Sam said, “I’m, uh, gonna catch a ride with the reverend to Cas’s car. I’ll drive it back to the bunker.” 

“Yeah, sure. The ‘reverend,’” Dean muttered. 

Sam blushed. “Shut up, _Dean_.”

“See you tomorrow, _Sammy_.”

Castiel bade Sam farewell, and wished him a merry Christmas. If he used a little bit of his Grace to bless Sam’s Christmas Eve and ensure his safe travels, Sam never knew. Slowly, Dean and Castiel made their way toward the door (Dean called it the “Minnesota Long Goodbye”, where one farewell took twenty minutes). By the time they reached the doorway, Mrs. Stewart was standing in front of it. “I don’t know what you boys did,” she said to them, “But _thank you_.” She looked over at her husband, whose frail hand was holding the small fingers of their youngest family member. “You don’t know what this means to me, to have one last Christmas with him and them.”

“I do, ma’am,” Dean said. “I do.”

She smiled. “Merry Christmas,” she said. “And God bless you.” She grabbed Dean’s shoulders and made him stoop down to her level to kiss him on the cheek. Her red lipstick left a stain on Dean’s cheek. He didn’t appear to care. She then grabbed Castiel’s hands in her small ones. “You,” she said, “Are a good man. _Anyone_ would be blessed to have you.” She kissed Castiel on the cheek as well and then whispered to him, “Look up” before she moved away. 

Above Dean and Castiel was the mistletoe. 

“Shit,” Dean said. 

“Oh come now, boys,” Mrs. Stewart said, “It’s tradition!”

“Yeah, pucker up, buttercup,” Mr. Stewart called from his bed. 

Sam covered his mouth, presumably to stifle a laugh. 

“Uh, Cas, we don’t have to,” said Dean. “I mean, it’s just a stupid tradition.”

“It is Christmas,” Castiel said. He leaned in and kissed Dean on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”

Dean looked ill. “Uh, let’s go now,” he said. He turned and walked quickly down the hallways, leaving Castiel scrambling to catch up. The Winchester was almost running by the time he reached the Impala, but he stopped a few feet away from it. 

“Dean? Are you alright?”

“No, Cas, I’m not fucking alright.”

“Would you like me to drive?”

“Would I like you to? _No_ , Cas, that’s not what I want.”

“I do not understand.”

“Of course you don’t! You’re Castiel, a holy fucking angel of the Lord and universal Mr. Nice Guy!”

Castiel didn’t think that Dean was talking about him driving the Impala anymore.

“You just always try to do the right thing, don’t you? Even when you don’t know what it fucking means. It’s like you’re playing at being a human, and you know what? It’s not cute. Or righteous. Or whatever the fuck you think it is.”

“I was human, Dean.”

Dean snorted. “For like five minutes.”

“Would you prefer that I don’t do the right thing?”

“ _Yes_.”

“How am I supposed to know what that is?”

“I don’t fucking know, Cas! That’s part of being human!”

Castiel was very confused. He didn’t understand Dean’s anger, especially since it seemed to have nothing to do with the Mark. The Mark, hidden under the layers of Dean’s coat and shirt and undershirt, festered like poison in a wound. “I do not know what you want from me,” he told Dean.

“I don’t either,” Dean admitted. “Just get in the car. Let’s go.”

The first hour of the drive back to the bunker was uncomfortable for Castiel. Dean was silent, not even playing the radio to accompany his brooding. Castiel wanted to reach out, to tell Dean what he needed to hear, even if he didn’t know what that was. But Dean wanted silence, and that, at the very least, Castiel could give him. 

The second hour of the drive, Castiel grew a little braver. He hadn’t expected to ever see another Christmas, after all. Just weeks before, the last of his stolen Grace had been all but snuffed out, until Crowley had intervened. The new Grace itched, never quite stilling, never quite stifling the human instincts he’d taken to. 

Instincts, Castiel was learning, were hard to ignore. 

“Dean, why do you hate Christmas?”

Dean didn’t look surprised by the question. “I don’t hate Christmas,” he said. “I”m just…I’m not very good at it.”

“You mean you do not have the ‘holiday spirit’?”

Dean sighed. “Yeah, I guess.”

“That is not true, Dean. You helped Mrs. Stewart when you didn’t have to. The reverend told me that’s very much in the spirit of Christmas.”

“Yeah, well, I only did it because you asked me to.”

“Why?”

“I just said ‘because you asked me to.’”

“But why because it was me who asked you?”

Dean’s eyes never left the road as he shrugged. “Well, you know.”

“No, Dean, I assure you I do not.”

“Well, you’re _Cas_.”

“Yes, I do know my name.”

“Yeah, well, between you and Sam, you’re just about the only people I’d do anything for.”

“Why?”

“I just told you—“

“Sam is your brother. Who am I to you?”

“Jesus, Cas, ask an easy question, would you?”

“Am I like another brother?”

“No! I mean, no, but you’re like family, man.”

“Would you ask any other member of your family to kill you if the Mark takes control of you?”

“Cas, fuck, can we _not_ talk about this?”

“What would you like to talk about?”

“Anything else, for fuck’s sake.”

“Why did the idea of kissing me under the mistletoe make you uncomfortable?”

“It didn’t,” Dean protested. 

“You were visibly unnerved.”

“Yeah, well, public displays of affection aren’t my thing.”

“So you would be agreeable to such a situation were not a roomful of people present?”

“Uh, well, it’s just a stupid tradition, so I guess not.”

Castiel had put an extra sprig of mistletoe in his coat pocket because he’d heard that it was useful in warding against werewolves. He pulled it out, and held it above Dean’s head. 

“Cas, what are you doing?” 

“I believe you would say I’m ‘calling your bluff.’”

“I’m driving, man.”

Castiel used his Grace to bring the Impala to a stop. The road was abandoned; there were no cars out this late on Christmas Eve. A quick look at the dash told Cas it was almost Christmas morning. 

“Cas! What the hell?”

Castiel placed his hand on Dean’s jaw, and turned the other man’s face toward his. He could see the uncertainty, the confusion, the fear in Dean’s eyes. He leaned forward, pressed his lips against Dean’s very softly. The mistletoe dropped out of his hand. Dean pressed his lips harder against Castiel’s, wrapping one hand around Castiel’s shoulders, and the other entangling itself into the angel’s hair. It wasn’t soft, wasn’t tentative, wasn’t anything like Castiel had expected. Dean’s kiss felt like holy fire, encircling Castiel, feeling like it would never let go. 

Dean moaned, and pressed closer to Castiel, kissing his way into the angel’s mouth. It felt right, and no matter what Dean said, Castiel was going to keep doing it. They kissed until his vessel’s lungs burned for air. Dean pulled Castiel into his lap, the angel bumped his head on the roof. “Are you okay?” Dean asked, concerned. 

“I’m fine.” Castiel eyed the backseat. “Perhaps we should relocate.”

Dean practically tossed him into the backseat before jumping back there himself. He pulled Castiel’s coat off, and then his own, tossing them into the front seat. The angel was pressed beneath the hunter, shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip. “Jesus,” Dean said, “I feel like a teenager again.” He kissed Castiel once more, his tongue tracing the angel’s lips. Castiel could feel the hardness of the hunter’s erection pressed against him, and he rocked up into Dean, earning a gasp from the other man. He pulled Dean’s shirt up, fingers frantic to touch his skin. He swept his hands down Dean’s spinal column, causing Dean to shiver. The Winchester ripped Castiel’s shirt, sending buttons flying, one hitting him square in the eye. “Ow!” he complained. 

“You shouldn’t have destroyed my attire.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining,” Dean whispered. He ran his hands over Castiel’s body, as if he were made of marble or alabaster. Castiel remembered doing the same thing, when he had just reformed Dean’s body after pulling him from hell. He tugged on Dean’s belt loops, bringing their clothing-covered erections together. 

“Cas,” Dean hissed. 

“Yes?”

“Please,” Dean begged.

Castiel rolled his hips up, wiggling a little to the side so one of his legs was slotted in between Dean’s. He rolled his hips again, and Dean bucked into the movement. The friction was not unpleasant, Castiel discovered, and he rolled his hips a little faster. Dean moaned into the angel’s shoulder. He brought his hands down, grabbing Castiel’s hips, pressing into him. He moved tortuously slow, giving Castiel just enough friction to cause the angel to pant. 

It had never been like this, not with Meg, not with April, but they were not Dean. Dean was the sun, a gravitational force that had pulled Castiel to him from the first time he’d cradled his soul in the depths of Hell. As Dean and Castiel’s bodies moved together, Castiel felt his Grace surging through him. It was no longer an itch, now it burned like wildfire. “Come on,” Dean panted into his ear, “Come for me.” The faster they moved, the more his Grace pulsed through Castiel until it crashed over him, a wave of unspoken desire and want now being realized. Dean crushed their lips together as his hips stuttered, finding his own release. 

He maneuvered himself so he was behind Cas, and cradled him in his arms as best as he could in the cramped space they had, and began to press soft kisses to Castiel’s jawline. “I really feel like a teenager now,” he whispered. “Creaming my pants in the back seat of my car.”

“I would apologize,” said Castiel, “But I’m really not sorry.”

They lay there, curled around each other, in silence. For the second time that evening, Castiel felt comfortable in the silence, and he embraced it. He trailed his fingers up and down Dean’s arm. He felt the raised scar tissue of the Mark, and he traced it with his thumb. 

“Cas, don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” Dean’s voice sounded pained. 

He wanted to tell Dean that the Mark was nothing to be ashamed of, but he wouldn’t lie to Dean. He wanted to tell Dean that they could burn it out, that they could exorcise it from his flesh the way they’d exorcised demons. That, too, would be a lie. Instead he said, “Dean, there is no part of you that I have not seen, that I would not save.” He brought Dean’s arm to his lips, and kissed the Mark. The stench of its evil repelled him, but he did it anyway. Dean kissed the back of his neck. Cas knew it was his way of saying “thank you.”

Dean pulled away. “Cas,” Dean said, “We need to go.” He climbed over the angel and into the front seat. 

“Why?” 

“Because I’m fucking freezing.”

“I could warm you.”

Dean laughed, and it was a pleasant sound. “Nice try. You need to take me to dinner first.”

“I meant that I could use my Grace to warm you.” Castiel climbed into the passenger seat, straightening the clothes that Dean had not ripped. 

“Don’t even think about it, Cas. You don’t got a lot to spare.” Dean turned the Impala’s ignition, and the engine roared to life. He turned the heater on high, and then flipped the radio on.

“Twisted Sister,” said Dean, “This is Christmas music I can get behind.”

Cas was asleep before they hit the outskirts of Lebanon. 

The next morning, Cas woke up to the sound of the bunker’s fire alarm blaring. Dean was already halfway out the door, Ruby’s knife in hand. Cas followed him to the kitchen, where a puff of smoke trailed along the ceiling. The alarm shrieked until Dean smacked it with the handle of a broom. The younger Winchester appeared then, wearing an apron and with a skillet in hand. 

“Uh, hi guys,” Sam said sheepishly, stepping in front of the stove. “Uh, merry Christmas?”

Dean looked over his brother’s shoulder. “Sammy? What the hell?”

“I, um, tried to make breakfast for you. For, um, Christmas.”

“That was very kind of you, Sam,” Cas said. 

“You burned _scrambled eggs_ ,” grumbled Dean. “How the fuck does a person burn eggs?”

Sam ignored his brother, fixing his eyes on the angel. “Uh, Cas? Where’s your shirt? And your, uh, pants?”

“Dean ruined them,” Cas said. 

Dean groaned. 

“Oh-kay. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” 

Dean grabbed the skillet from Sam’s hands. “I’m making pancakes,” he growled. “Sam’s not allowed to help.”

Sam backed away from the stove as Dean retrieved the pancake mix. He stood next to Cas. “Uh, Mrs. Stewart sent you this,” Sam said, pulling a sprig of mistletoe wrapped in a red ribbon out of his pocket. “But I, uh, guess you don’t need it?”

Cas looked over at Dean, who was scraping the charred remains of scrambled eggs into the trash and grumbling all the while. “No,” he said, “It is not necessary, although it is a nice tradition.”

“She, uh, also gave me this to give to you.” He handed Cas a piece of paper that had been folded in half. 

_Dear Cas,_ it read, _I cannot thank you enough for giving my husband a wonderful Christmas with his family. He wants you to have the same.You are too young to have regrets. Go get him. -Mrs. Stewart. P.S. This is my granddaughter’s phone number 555-4762. Give it to Sam, but make him work for it first. Merry Christmas._  

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't the story I set out to write, but this fic turned out to be the story I needed. Sometimes real life imitates art, and sometimes art is fashioned from real life. When I sat down to write this, I had something very different in mind, something fluffy and smutty. I was only a few hundred words in when I got word that my grandfather had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, with only weeks to live, and so my short fluff fic became something a lot more personal. My grandparents have been married for 67 years, and this will be his last Christmas. Since I'm 6,000 miles away, this was my way of being there with them and my chance to say goodbye to one of the best men I've ever known. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and a very happy holidays to you and your family. 
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/dearcollectress) or on [Tumblr](http://dearcollectress.tumblr.com).


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